


The Art of Getting Off

by Inmyownidiom



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Banter, Cozy Cabin, Enthusiastic Consent, Excessive Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Rey sucks at skiing, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Voice Kink, and other things, author uses scant knowledge of skiing, ben is the best at skiing, just a bunch of puns in general, mildly dubious knowledge of blizzards, never enough puns, ridiculous metaphors, sex puns, silliness, ski instructor! Ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 02:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16965723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inmyownidiom/pseuds/Inmyownidiom
Summary: ‘Sign up for ski lessons!’ her friends had said.‘It’ll be fun!’ her friends had said.It's taken one month for Rey to figure out that she hates skiing, and that her friends were complete liars.It's also taken one month for Rey to develop a colossal crush on her skiing instructor.When combined, a crush, a blizzard, and a gallon of innuendo can make a cold cabin awfully warm.





	The Art of Getting Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunilicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunilicious/gifts).



> This was taken from the prompts:   
> -Rey signs up for skiing lessons with the new sexy instructor at the local ski lodge. But what happens when a snowstorm traps them inside his cabin?   
> -Reylo Christmas Smut. Rey's on the naughty list and receives a gift for every ho-ho-hole. Don't kill me.
> 
> WITH THOSE PROMPTS BUNI, OF COURSE I WON'T KILL YOU.  
> <3

“You can do this.”

“N-no.”

“Come on, Rey.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“There’s no way. No way.”

“Just relax. Take a deep breath. Let go.”

“But--”

“I’m right here. I’ll catch you.” 

_ Sonofafuckingwhore. _

Rey tightens her grip on the brightly painted side pole that reaches up from the padded chair. Even through her thick mittens, she can feel the coldness of the metal. 

This is how she’s going to die. And it’s going to be horrible and embarrassing, because she’s never heard about anyone dying after getting stuck on a ski lift when they’re dangling in the air barely higher than the outstretched fingertips of their super attractive ski instructor, but this is how it’s going to happen anyway.

There’s a good view, at least. From the high vantage of the chair, she can see snow-capped peaks jutting into a crystal-blue sky, acres of bushy pine trees whose limbs sag under the weight of fresh powder, and the perfect ‘S’ curves carved into the slope by skilled skiers that look like someone has measured and drawn them with an architect’s precision. 

Oh, and on top of everything else, today is Christmas. 

She’s going to die on Christmas, falling eight feet from the ski lift that’s meant to take children to the top of the bunny slope. 

_ Goddammit. _

When she signed up for private ski lessons a month ago, she’d filled out the questionnaire with insurance information, address, and signature saying she wouldn’t sue the crap out of the resort if she broke anything and skipped over the section for listing any pertinent information her instructor should know. In hindsight, it would have been a good idea to write ‘not super okay with heights,’ but of course, when she was filling out the paperwork, it hadn’t seemed important. 

The first few times she’d gotten off the lift had been shaky, but acceptable.

_ ‘There’s an art to it,’  _ her instructor, Ben, had said. It was all about relaxing. Easy for him to say. 

A gust of wind, which on the ground would have been cool and refreshing, rocks the chair in a way that sends Rey’s stomach into her ski boots. Her mittened grip tightens on the chair’s pole. 

“You can do this,” Ben says again.

Rey whimpers. 

It would be much better if Ben wasn’t super attractive, she tells herself. Sure. That would make a difference. His body is achingly tall and breathtakingly wide. Black hair tumbles effortlessly out from underneath his helmet and brushes against his full lips. His mirrored goggles perch on a long, aquiline nose that would look out of place on a smaller man, but seems to fit him just right. And then there’s his voice. 

_ Dear God, his voice. _

Whatever he says in that deep, rumbling baritone makes her tingle all over, whether it’s ‘Try it again, but slower this time,’ or ‘Stick out your butt a little more,’ or ‘Snow.’ 

Yeah, so she has an enormous crush on her ski instructor. 

It’s stupid, honestly, because she’s only known him a month, and has only been to six lessons, and--the stupidest part of it all--she still hasn’t even seen his eyes. How can you have a crush on someone and not know that pivotal detail? She’s managed to, in any case. 

And because she has said enormous crush on said super attractive ski instructor, her mind had drifted right as she was supposed to stand up and get off of the ski lift, so instead of thinking about getting off of the ski lift, she was thinking about getting off with  _ him. _

A small crowd is forming around the lift tower, murmuring and pointing at her. 

She isn’t even high enough to warrant a ladder. 

As soon as he’d noticed she hadn’t disembarked, Ben had shouted something to the attendant and the lift had jerked to a sudden, gut-wrenching halt. He’d talked Rey through undoing the bindings on her skis, and once those fell to the snow, he’d speared them onto the slope a safe distance away. 

Thick, gloved fingers close around the toe of her boot. 

“Just let go,” he says. 

The white ground lurches below her and Rey lets out another whimper. 

“I--”

“What’s stopping you?”

So much. 

If she falls, she might break a leg. She might land on the compacted snow with enough force to snap her femur, or crack a tibia, or rip her ACL in half, and then she would be stuck on a couch with crutches and powerful medication. Trapped inside, only able to stare regretfully out of the window.

“It’s far,” is what she finally manages to say.

Ben’s mouth twists with a suppressed smile. One cheek creases in a dimple. Rey focuses on the dimple, because it seems to lurch less than the ground. 

Not just the fall scares her; falling in front of this man scares her, because she can’t bear to look like an idiot in front of him.

Of all excuses, it isn’t the most logical. He undoubtedly already thinks that she’s an idiot, ever since the second lesson: she’d been unbalanced and nearly out-of-control and he’d shouted, “PIZZA! PIZZA!” and Rey had shouted back, “Maybe later!” unaware that he was actually telling her to angle her skis into a wedge so she could slow herself down. 

Ben wiggles her boot gently. “You work on engines, right? That must be a lot harder than this.”

_ Fuck, _ and he even remembers when she told him about her job, although he’s left out a key detail: Rey designs engines from behind the organized safety of a computer. There are too many moving parts inside an engine, and too many opportunities for pinched fingers, ripped-off arms, and grease stains that soak into her skin like tattoos. Maybe she can blame her childhood for this, because when someone tells you to keep your hands clean and look the way a proper little girl should, and if you do, then you might  _ finally _ be adopted, those words tend to set up residence in the middle of your brain and never want to leave, even if they were total lies. 

Yet Ben’s remembered her job, and it gives her pause. 

After her third lesson, he hadn’t had anyone scheduled after her, so they’d sat together on a sun-blasted picnic table right outside the lodge and sipped watery hot chocolate. It was light conversation: jobs, pets, favorite vacations. When he wasn’t teaching ski lessons, he was a trail-running guide, or a mountain-biking instructor, or volunteered for the local trail-building crews. Rey had asked him if he ever left the mountains, and he’d answered, ‘Only when dragged away. Or when I need groceries.’

He just needs a wild beard instead of the short stubble above his lip and on his chin, and he’d fit within every ‘mountain man’ stereotype. Rey would bet that he owns an axe. And looks great in plaid. 

The ski chair sways on the cable when a stronger breeze gives it a nudge, and Rey lets out a squeak as her arms cinch tighter around the pole. 

“Okay,” Ben says beneath her. “Tell you what. If you jump down, I’ll buy you a drink after the lesson.” When Rey frowns at him, he continues. “An alcoholic drink. Not that crappy hot cocoa. Come on.” Arms outstretched, he gestures towards himself with his gloved fingers. 

“Are you trying to bribe me?” 

“Yes.”

She hates to admit it, but it’s working. She’s been wanting to ask him out for a drink since that third lesson, but nerves have always gotten the better of her; it’s been a while since her last relationship, and the very concept of boldness makes her shake nearly as much as being stuck in a swaying lift chair. 

Here, he’s just given her an opening.

She inches forward on the vinyl seat and moves her hands to the thinner metal that forms the armrest.

_ Do it. Just fucking DO IT. _

Rey takes a deep breath to prepare herself for dropping, but when she does, her body shifts just enough that the smooth fabric of her snow pants slips off the snowmelt-slicked vinyl. She falls with a shrill yelp. Something twinges in her shoulder and she barely manages to keep a tight hold on the armrest. Strong arms wrap around her thighs, supporting her, stilling her thrashing legs. 

“Let go, Rey.” He sounds muffled, and when she looks down, she realizes why; his goggle-clad face is buried in her crotch. 

Surprise short-circuits her thoughts and for a split second, she forgets that she’s high off the ground and releases the chair. Ben takes that moment to stumble backwards out of reach of the swinging metal seat and loosens his grip so the front of her body slides down the front of his body. With her long underwear, her fleece, and both of their bulky ski jackets, it’s a lot less erotic than it should be. Her boots thud on the packed snow.

A few people cheer. Someone whistles. Another person claps, the sound muted by a pair of fuzzy gloves. 

Before she can get too used to the feel of his (unfortunately) professional embrace, Ben grips her shoulders and holds her steady at arm’s length. 

She can see her reflection in his goggles: freckled face, rosy nose. It’s not quite breezy enough to blame the wind for her flushed cheeks. 

Against the dark moles on Ben’s face, she can swear that she sees a fading blush. 

“You okay?” he says. 

Rey nods, trying not to get distracted by the woodsy smell of him or how  _ right _ it had felt to have his face in her--

“Put your skis back on.”

“What?”

She’s sure that he’s giving her an unamused look underneath those shining goggles. 

“If you fall off a horse, you get back on,” Ben says. “If you get stuck on a chair lift, you ski down the slope then get back on the lift so you can practice getting off of it.” 

“Erm,” Rey says, “I’m not sure that’s the best--”

A wry twist of his lips. One of his eyebrows is probably raised. “Yeah? How long have you been teaching people how to ski?”

As they make their way down the bunny slope, Rey decides that the only bad thing about wearing mittens is that when you flip someone off, no one can tell. 

 

* * *

 

Her legs are burning nearly as much as her lungs. After what she’s started to call the Chair Lift Incident, she made it down the bunny slope without falling once, which apparently convinced Ben that it was time to go to the top of the mountain. (“We’ll stick to the green routes,” he’d said.) 

As the lift approached the last tower, Rey’s heart pounded a frantic rhythm in her chest, and Ben linked his arm in hers. 

“You can do this,” he’d said. “Relax.”

And she had done it. No falling down the gentle slope that led from the exit point, no getting stuck and swooping back into the air, no colliding with a small group of children in puffy jackets and skis as long as her forearm. 

A few plump snowflakes tickle Rey’s nose as she watches Ben demonstrate how she should angle her torso. With only a half hour left in her two-hour lesson, something has barely begun to click. On the last run, there had been a moment--brief and fleeting, but a moment all the same--where she had carved into the slope and turned, and it had almost felt natural. 

“Lean,” Ben says. “Feel it all the way--no, wait, here.” 

He glides behind her, his skis on either side of hers. 

“Is it okay if I touch your hips?” 

“Yep.” She means to sound casual, but it comes out too squeaky for her liking. 

There’s no way she could feel the heat of his hands through her long underwear and her snow pants. No way. 

She feels it anyway. 

“Lean,” Ben says again, pressure from his touch making her shift her weight just so. 

More fat snowflakes settle on her goggles and she brushes them away. 

“Got it?” Ben says. 

Rey nods, although she doesn’t manage to remember what he was trying to teach her. A brisk wind nips at her exposed cheeks and manages to make its way behind her goggles. 

Earlier in the day, she had been able to see the glimmering, snow-capped peaks at the opposite end of the valley. Now, as she practices her lean at the saddle at the top of the resort slopes, all she can see is white: a close white, an oppressive white. 

More snowflakes fall. They’re light, puffy things, completely different from the snow she’d grown used to in London. The snow out here is as soft as powdered sugar and as airy as champagne. 

Another instructor, clad in the resort’s blue and black jacket, zips past.

“Time-and-a-half on Christmas, Ben!” she says. 

Ben gives her a gloved thumbs-up. “Have a happy, Phas,” he shouts as she flies down the slope. 

For the nth time today, Rey is utterly grateful that he had a lesson available for today. After looking morosely at a week with her friends all having flown back to their respective families, Rey had gone out on a limb and asked Ben if he was teaching on Christmas. He’d agreed, luckily, since Rey wasn’t keen on spending another year alone in her apartment warmed by the duel embrace of Netflix and spiked hot cocoa. One year, sure. Two in a row? Nah. 

Besides, there have been far fewer people on the slopes today, which means that there are far fewer people to watch Rey fall on her ass and/or face. (A few lessons ago, she’d managed to do both in the span of three seconds with one truly majestic fumble.) 

The flakes fall harder, and Rey finds that she’s struggling to see. 

Ben spits out harsh words into the air. 

“What?” Rey says over the wind. 

“Where the fuck did this come from?” Ben shouts. 

The air seems to have dropped far below freezing, and Rey can feel the little hairs on the inside of her nose stiffening. When she rubs her nose with the back of a mitten, she swears she can hear them crackle.

Ben gets close enough for her to hear him say, “Hold onto my pole!”

It’s difficult to not to giggle at that, and the impulse is only smothered by the heavy blanket of panic starting to settle on her shoulders.

Rey has taken classes about getting lost in the woods, and how not to do it. She’s been to Wilderness First Aid seminars, and has taken notes all through talks titled, ‘How to Survive in the Forest.’ In every lesson and class, one of the most important rules is always, ‘Don’t fucking get stuck in a blizzard at the top of a mountain.’

Paraphrased, of course. 

The basket-end of Ben’s ski pole nudges at her waist, and Rey wraps her mitten around it, letting him tug her along. They don’t pass the lift tower, and Rey wonders for a moment why they’re not going down the slope they’ve always used, until she remembers that the resort has a back bowl, filled with worker’s cabins and a few maintenance trails. Oh, and black diamonds, which was why she’s never paid too much attention to the back bowl. 

The storm has quickened. Her vision is a whirlwind of spinning flakes and white-gray clouds. The lurch in her stomach is the only thing that tells her they are still moving, downhill, rather quickly. 

She has no idea how Ben does it. Dark magic, perhaps. Several of his thick, black locks, maybe a cup of blood, and a horrible incantation given in exchange for ski skills that could rival that of a yeti Olympian. 

They jerk to a halt and Rey can barely make out the angular shape of a cabin. After stabbing their skis into a drift by the door, Ben fumbles with the door’s handle, slams his shoulder against the wood with a grunt loud enough that Rey hears it above the wail of the blizzard, and the door swings open into blackness. He ushers her inside, and then…

_ Warmth. _

Oh, merciful warmth. It surrounds her like an embrace. Her goggles fog up instantly and Rey wrenches them off, wanting to laugh at the thrill of being suddenly sheltered. 

Behind her, Ben’s struggling out of his ski boots. Rey bends to do the same, but the cabin has distracted her: rough wooden floors, an angular wood stove with a tea kettle giving off lazy wisps of steam, a narrow door leading to what seems to be a narrow bathroom. A bed sits against one wall, its frame made of thick, shaved logs. It’s just small enough to be cozy, and not quite large enough to be comfortable. A pair of grubby running shoes sit tucked underneath the foot of the bed.

“Is this where you live?” Rey says. A foot pops free from her boot, and she steadies herself against the door.  

“Yeah,” Ben says. “When I’m working with the resort, at least.”

He’s divested himself of his boots and is making his way to the wood stove, goggles thrown onto a small stand by the door, helmet unbuckled. 

_ Turn around, _ Rey thinks.  _ Turn around so I can see you. _

Although he’s amazing at skiing, he’s terrible at mind-reading, and instead shoves a log into the open grate of the stove, blowing onto the coals until they crackle into a flame. The cast-iron hinge squeals as he closes it. 

The warmth is making her head itch, and she wrestles with the helmet before setting it beside her boots. 

“There are some hooks by the door for your jacket,” Ben says while Rey struggles with the alarming knowledge that she’s here, in his  _ home,  _ and they’re going to be trapped here for who-knows-how-long. She isn’t sure whether to be more excited or nervous, so she settles somewhere in the middle.

“I didn’t see anything about this bullshit in the forecast,” Ben mumbles, slipping off his helmet. Shining, black waves tumble just shy of his shoulders, and he ruffles both hands through the dense mass. Rey can’t help but stare. Her mouth drifts open and her jacket falls from her slackened grip to the floor. At the thud of her phone smacking the wooden boards, she jumps, and ducks to snatch the jacket back up and slam it onto a hook. 

She’s sure that her blush is nearing lobster-red on the spectrum of blushes, so she turns to the small window beside the door and stares out of it. 

_Just be cool,_ Finn’s voice says in her head. _You’re a strong, capable woman._ _You can do anything you put your mind to._

_ Yes, please, keep telling me what to do, _ Rey thinks desperately, but it seems as if that’s all Finn’s lingering presence in her mind has to offer. Rose says something about making sure to be safe, and Poe just reminds her that she’s only had sex four times in the past three years, because Poe’s a bit of a dick, and really sucks as a consoling voice.

Outside, the storm rages. Snowflakes streak past the window so quickly that they blur. Rey’s breath fogs the glass and she swipes a finger through it; it’s so cold that the condensation has already frozen and comes away on her finger as little flakes of ice. 

The floorboards creak as Ben comes behind her. There’s the long zip of his jacket and the scrape of fabric as he shrugs out of it. 

When he stands next to her and looks out of the window, she feels his presence first: warm and overwhelming. 

“Shit,” he says abruptly. “I should have taken you to your car.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees as he runs a hand again through his hair, and Rey wonders if this is one of his nervous tics. Is he  _ nervous _ around her? She’d love it to be true, since then at least she wouldn’t be alone. 

“I’m sorry,” he continues, “I wasn’t thinking.” Another pass of his fingers through his hair, and Rey decides that it’s definitely a nervous tic. She finds herself relaxing. His eyes are deep-set, she notices, and dark. Thick eyebrows, long lashes. 

“It’s fine,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“I just…” He narrows his eyes at the blizzard. “I don’t want you to think that I took you back here to…” His next words are barely audible. “Just throw you over my shoulder and take you back to my cave.” He scoffs at himself. 

Warmth that has nothing to do with the stove spreads through her limbs at the thought. 

“You have a nice cave,” she says. “Quite dry. Very clean for a cave.”

Ben snorts in derision, but a small smile plucks at one side of his mouth. “Thanks.”

She stares at the swirling mass of white, thinks of her car, and lets out a short laugh. “Besides, I drive a Corolla,” she says. “If we were even able to make it to my car, I couldn’t go anywhere in this.” 

“It’s not one of those lifted, souped-up, four-wheel-drive Corollas?” 

Rey shakes her head mournfully. “Alas, no. I skipped the ‘monster-truck’ additions at my last oil change.” 

“Pity.” 

“It’s all right, though. Being stuck in a cabin together is a lot more comfy than being stuck in a sedan.” 

She turns to him, wry smile already prepared, and when he looks down at her--because she hadn’t realized how  _ tall _ the man is--something seems to snag both of them by the lungs. 

His eyes are so brown that they almost seem black. They rove over her face with a mixture of curiosity and hunger, and it makes her belly flutter. There’s a pensiveness in him, previously hidden by mirrored goggles, and a softness, too; she could imagine this man pouring over a stack of novels as he sits by his fire, or tipping his head backwards so that he can take in as much of a bluebird sky as possible, or nudging a caterpillar off of a trail with the toe of his shoe. 

But somewhere, underneath that softness, there’s an intensity. Rey isn’t quite sure  _ where _ she sees this; maybe it’s the slope of his eyebrows, the way he presses his lips together, the little line that creases his forehead. Or, maybe she’s just made it all up. 

Ben clears his throat. Rey thinks that she heard a bit of a tremble in the sound, but perhaps she’s made that up, too. 

“You, uh, want some hot cocoa?” he says. 

Rey nods. “That’d be great.” 

“Oh.” His plump lips tip into a frown. “I was hoping you’d say ‘no’.” 

Her frown matches his. “Why?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Then why’d you offer?”

That lip press again. A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I was trying to be a good host.”

“Good hosts don’t offer things their guests can’t have.”

There is innuendo somewhere in there, but Rey isn’t going reach deep enough to find it.

‘Reach deep enough.’ There’s innuendo in  _ that  _ too. 

Whatever.

Ben heaves a sigh. The movement stretches the fabric across his shoulders, and at the sight of the waffle-textured henley expanding along with his impossibly wide torso, Rey realizes that she’s never seen him without his jacket before.

“I usually prefer to be on my own,” Ben says. 

Hold on, gloriously muscled shoulders aside, he has the gall, the absolute  _ gall _ to blame her for intruding? Resentment simmers in her throat. She points a finger at his chest. “Wait just a minute. You’re the one who brought me here. If you’re going to get snippy about me invading your fortress of solit--”

“Oh, shit, no, I didn’t mean it like…” He rubs his face roughly. “It’s just...I don’t ever have people over. I don’t know how to--” he gestures at the one-room cabin  _ “--entertain.”  _ He says the word as if it were coated in lemon juice. 

“Lucky for you, I’m easy.” 

Ben turns to her, his eyebrows high on his forehead.

_ Oh, Jesus. _ “To entertain! E-easy...easy to entertain.” 

“Uh huh.” He’s fighting with a smile. 

Rey shoves her hands in the pockets of her ski bib. “Some food would be nice.” 

Crinkles appear in the corners of Ben’s eyes as he peeks into a small cabinet, then he frowns and sucks his teeth. “All right. I have Ramen, trail mix, and a bag of dried apricots.”

“Ooh, delicious. I’ll take a Ramen, please.”

As he’s tearing the tops off of the styrofoam cups, Rey remembers what he’d said when she was stuck on the lift.

“I suppose buying me a drink for jumping from the lift is off the table too,” she says.

Ben pours steaming water from the kettle into one of the cups. “That depends on what your definition of ‘jump’ is.”

“Why would that matter?”

He hands her a cup and a heavy steel utensil. “Because you didn’t jump from it.”

“Yes I did.”

His look clearly says, ‘Oh, please.’

The cup is warm in her hands and she brings it to her nose. “Fine. Jump, tumble, fall from ungracefully. You promised a drink. It shouldn’t matter how I got off in the end, as long as I did it.” 

_ OhdearGodwhy. _

Before she can be the victim of another raised brow, Rey blurts, “Anyway, the drink?”

He returns to the cabinet, though she can see that the tips of his ears poking through his hair have pinkened. As he stares into the cabinet, he makes a displeased, harrumphing sort of noise. 

“How do you feel about splitting a room-temperature PBR?” 

Rey thinks for a second. “If I agree, will you still owe me a beverage?” 

“Of course.” He narrows his eyes at the can. “I don’t think PBR even counts as a drink.” He pours it into two plastic mugs anyway, and hands her one.

They settle next to the stove--Ben in a chair that seems to be one mean look away from collapsing, and Rey perched on the edge of the mattress. The checkered quilt is threadbare in spots and softer than any blankets she’s ever owned. It crosses her mind that this might be an old quilt, possibly a family heirloom. She tightens her grip on her soup as she slurps it in a way that can’t possibly be attractive, but honestly, she’s too hungry to care. 

“So,” Rey says after Ben’s tosses their empty containers, “why’d you agree to give me a lesson today?” 

Ben takes a sip from his plastic mug and winces at the taste. More accurately, at the lack of taste. “I’ve never really celebrated it.” He pauses, and corrects himself. “Or, well, my family has. Every year, it’s a huge swarm of relatives that swarm in my grandmother’s house. It’s unbelievably loud, because everyone’s trying to yell louder than the TV. My mom panics because she doesn’t know if she’s made enough potatoes, and my father tries to calm her down by bellowing about how nothing worked last year, and it can’t be worse than that, and my drunken uncle hammers on about whatever new religion he’s just discovered.” 

He leans back in chair and it gives a squealing creak of protest. “So I grew up with loud, frantic madness, and always ended up hiding in the spare bedroom and hoping that everyone forgot I was there.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Rey says honestly. 

Ben snorts like a frustrated bull. “Yeah. Absolutely.” He takes another sip of beer and winces again, as if he’s forgotten what he’s been drinking. “How about you? Why’d you want a lesson on Christmas?”

Rey swirls the beer around in her cup. “I’ve never really celebrated, either. I didn’t have anyone to celebrate with, and the orphanage I grew up in tried to be as non-denominational as possible, so we would only ever get New Year’s and Valentine’s Day.” 

She tries to sound airy about it, because none of it fazes her anymore. 

“Oh. Shit,” Ben says. “I’m--” He breaks off. “This time of year must be rough for you.”

Rey shrugs. “It’s fine. Sometimes I spend it with friends, but the past few years they’ve all gone home. I feel kind of weird crashing someone else’s family gathering, you know?”

“Yeah.” 

He’s staring at his beer as if it’s going to tell him what to say next. 

“Anyway!” Rey says brightly. “Here’s to Christmas!” She leans over and clacks her plastic cup against his. 

Ben huffs a soft laugh. “And to blizzards.” 

“And horrible ski technique.” 

“Oh, come on,” Ben says. “You’re getting better.” It had all of the conviction of someone saying that snow wasn’t even that cold.

Rey waves her hand at him. “Stop. I’m awful. And honestly? I don’t actually even like skiing.”

When he leans farther back in the chair, his face screwed up in confusion, the chair groans like a dying elephant. 

“Why--”

“Come over here,” she interrupts and points at the empty space beside her. “You’re going to murder that chair, and then fall into the stove.”

“The stove’s closed.” He gets up anyway. “It’s not like I can fall into it.” 

Rey rolls her eyes. When he climbs onto the bed next to her--slowly, as if he’s worried that any sudden movements will scare her off like she’s a deer--the mattress dips in such a way that she has to hold herself steady to avoid rolling into him. Her pulse leaps. 

“You’d still get burned,” she says. 

It’s Ben’s turn to roll his eyes. He’s arranged himself so his back is against the wall with his long legs stretched out across the bed. It looks rather comfortable, and she copies him.

“So if you don’t like skiing, why are you trying to learn?”

“Because…” Rey makes a broad gesture to the window. 

Ben squints at the roiling mass of white and aimes a puzzled frown at her. 

She makes a little frustrated groan. “Okay, well, imagine there’s an actual view. I’m trying to learn to ski because the mountains call to me. Mountains in England are…” Rey blows through her lips in a raspberry. “They’re hills. These--” she gestures to the window again “--are craggy, wild monsters. I love how dramatic they are. You look at them, and it’s like you’re not even on Earth anymore. And I love how it’s hard to breathe when you’re scrambling to a peak, and I love the...the...peace that you find when you’re on a trail and under the trees and you can’t think of anything else but how much your legs hurt and how fucking  _ good _ it smells.”

Rey stops when she notices that Ben’s staring at her. 

“Sorry,” she says with a sheepish smile. “That probably didn’t make much sense.”

He’s still staring, dumbstruck, as if she’s just spoken blazing and wonderful prose instead of a series of blurting sentences, and only when Rey shifts under the unwavering force of his gaze do his eyes drift to the cup between his hands.

“No, I, uh…” He flashes her a short smile, as bright and brief as sun on a stream. “I feel it, too.”

There’s something looser about the way he’s holding himself, now. Shoulders slack, head resting against the wooden wall. Rey wonders how the sharp line of his jaw would feel under her fingertips, how those strong arms would feel as they tensed against her back. She swallows, and Ben seems to hear it.

His eyes flick to hers and she feels sparks flare in her lower belly. 

“And that’s why you want to ski?” Ben says. 

She takes a sip of her beer, even though it’s warmish and tastes like watered-down water, because if her hands have something to do, maybe they won’t tremble as much. 

“What else are you supposed to do in the mountains in winter?” she says. “Besides bunk up with your attractive ski instructor.” 

Rey freezes. Shit,  _ shit. _ Had she said that out loud? The faint blush rising up Ben’s neck must mean that she had.

_ Fuck. _

Ben’s lips twist as if he’s chewing on the inside of his mouth. One cheek dimples. There’s something almost victorious about his expression, and Rey isn’t sure what to make of it. He holds up a large hand and begins to tick off on his blunt fingers.

“You could snowshoe. Or camp. Make a snow fort. Snowboard. Cross-country ski.”

Rey’s trying not to get distracted by the size of his knuckles, or the length of his hands. 

“That it?” she says, staring at the way his thumbs move. 

Ben hums in thought. “Skijoring.”

The word pulls her reluctantly from her reverie. She knows about that, at least, since a harnessed dog pulling her along on skis has always sounded pretty great. “I don’t have a dog,” she says.

“You could get a dog.”

“I’m not getting a dog just to go skijoring.”

“It’s fun.”

“You’ve done it?”

Ben gives her a look that says, ‘Of course I’ve done it.’

In return, she gives his body an obvious once-over. “What kind of dogs did you use, percherons?”

“Chihuahuas.”

Rey snorts. “Just hundreds of chihuahuas, tearing across the fresh, virgin snowfields.”

“Thousands.” His expression becomes dramatically pained. “The noise was incredible.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then they both laugh, and it’s so freeing and thrilling that Rey slumps against the wall, every remaining nervous tingle leeched out. 

The storm wails outside and a log shifts in the wood stove with a mellifluous crackle. 

“See though,” Rey says, “even if you go out and do all of these fun snow things, in the winter you’re much more likely to get stuck. Like... _ this.” _

“Like ‘this’?” Ben sounds offended.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s a very nice place to get stuck. But we’re trapped. In the cold. And soon, in the dark. For an indeterminate span of time.” Rey nibbles her lower lip. “With one bed.” 

Ben’s fingers flex around his cup. 

With a giggling snort, Rey continues. “It sounds like something out of a porno. Alone on Christmas, but for each other.” Her heart’s hammering, and she hopes she sounds as blithe as she’d meant to. 

Ben’s chuckle vibrates through the bed. The flush that had hovered around his neck earlier creeps above his jawline. “I think we’d know if we were in a porno.”

“Yeah, there’d be a sign with big, block words saying, ‘He wants to fill her every ho-ho-hole.’”

Ben barks out a laugh, snorting and choking around his beer. The remnants slosh precariously close to the lip of the cup and he sets it on a stand beside the bed. 

“That’s a pretty great name. Sounds like you watch a lot of pornos.” His voice has dropped. It’s gotten huskier. Rey is sure it’s not her imagination. 

“No,” she says a little too quickly, then sighs. “Okay. Fine.” She turns to him. “What do you want from me? I’ve been single for a while, and I got--” she makes a circular motion with her palm in front of her crotch “--needs. Don’t you dare judge me.”

He fiddles with the pocket on the outer thigh of his ski pants. “Single for a while, huh?”

_ That’s _ what he took from her whole little spiel? Rey’s about to be frustrated with him, when an image pops into her head: Finn, Rose, and Poe all scrambling around a control room, a klaxon blaring in the background as they shout, ‘We have flirting! WE HAVE FLIRTING!’

All right then, so she’ll flirt back. 

“Bet you don’t have any idea how single feels, Tall, Dark, and Handsome.” 

He gives her a wry look. “Oh, I know. Do you think I’d agree to give a ski lesson on  _ Christmas _ if I had anyone besides my family to go home to?” 

Rey shrugs against the pleasure unfurling within her.  “Maybe she doesn’t like the holidays. Maybe  _ he _ doesn’t like the holidays. I don’t want to pigeonhole you.” 

“Maybe…” His voice is soft, like a caress against her skin and Rey shivers despite the warmth in the cabin. “Maybe I thought that if you wanted a lesson, you didn’t have anything else going on for the day. And maybe I thought that if that was the case, I might get to see you after the lesson, too.” 

“Oh.” Rey smiles into her beer. Thanks to her ski pants, her long underwear, the wood stove, and the fidgeting man sitting beside her, she’s starting to overheat. “See me after the day, or after the lesson?” she says to Ben.  

“Both?”

When she leans across him to place her empty cup on the stand next to his, her elbow brushes his broad chest and she feels him suck in a sharp breath. He catches her elbow gently before she can withdraw. A thrill races down Rey’s spine, and possibilities settle warm and pulsing between her thighs like the coals in the wood stove. She remembers how Ben blew on the coals to coax them into a dancing flame, and she grows even warmer. 

His face is awfully close. Several moles dot his cheeks and Rey wonders for a second how he’s managed to stay so pale. He must use a lot of sunblock. Rey’s never been so turned on by responsible skin care before.

Ben parts his lips as if he’s about to say something, but pauses. 

“If…” he starts, then drifts off.

“Yes?” It comes out as a whisper in between her shallow breaths.

He tries again. “If I kissed you right now, would that be weird?” 

Rey’s entire body is filled with coals and they’re all alight. “I hope not.” 

“Could...I find out if it would be weird?”

“Yes, please.”

Their lips meet hesitantly at first. His are soft and plump underneath her own, and they move with a tenderness that makes her want to whimper. One of his broad hands drifts up to cup the back of her neck. And then, as she gasps a moan against him, he’s no longer tender: his mouth slants over hers, and his tongue tangles against her own, and his stubble scrapes her chin, but she doesn’t care, because this is the kiss she’s always dreamed about even if she’s wearing a child’s ski bib from a thrift store (because it was cheap and it fits) and hasn’t shaved her legs in a month. 

The thought strikes her that she undoubtedly tastes like Ramen and cheap beer, but since Ben’s had the same, and since she can’t taste anything besides  _ him, _ and can’t smell anything besides the woodsy, spicy, consuming scent of his skin, she should probably stop worrying about it. 

In a move so smooth she hardly realizes it’s happening, Ben maneuvers her to her back so she’s lying on his pillow and he’s between her legs, and the cabin is alive with soft groans and gasps and the ragged rasp of ski pants sliding across ski pants. 

If she was borderline overheating earlier, she’s about to combust now. 

His mouth has moved to her neck, and she rakes her fingers through his luscious waves, not wanting him to move, not wanting him to stop. His hair is an intoxicating blend of sweat, and man, and coffee, and it really  _ shouldn’t _ work on an olfactory level, but it does, somehow. 

His hand ghosts over her breast, tentative, and when she arches into his palm, he strokes her through her bib and her long underwear and her bra and  _ hell _ she wants to feel more.

A drop of sweat collects between her breasts and Rey decides that she’s had enough of these layers. 

“Fuck,” she grits out as she fumbles with the straps on her bib. “Get these off.” 

Ben helps her with the first strap, then smirks at it. “Is this...velcro?” 

“Shut up.” 

He rips the strap’s clasp open. “This is velcro. Are these space pants?” 

“Shut up, Ben.” 

He undoes the second strap with a vicious tug and a loud rip of velcro. “I didn’t know anyone still made these. You should get them framed or something.” 

With a growl, Rey shoves him to the side so she can wriggle out of the bib, then throws it to the floor. Before it even lands, she’s pounced on him again, rubbing her long-underwear-clad body against his. Even through the remaining layers, she can feel the solid ridge that’s making a desperate attempt to tent the heavy fabric of his ski pants. 

Those big, heavy hands grip her ass as she grinds against him. Her long underwear is skin-tight, since that’s how she had read long underwear should fit, and he’s digging his fingers into her skin and urging her onward, harder, faster. 

_ More, more,  _ her body pleads.  _ More. _

There’s a frantic fumbling with his ski pants, and Rey isn’t quite sure who’s undone them, but Ben shoves them down his legs and kicks at them until they’re off. His long underwear is skin-tight too, and now she can  _ see _ the solid ridge of his cock and a little bubble of nervousness creeps into her throat because it’s a  _ large _ solid ridge, and, well, the four times she’s had sex were mostly clustered towards the beginning part of the last three years. And, honestly, one of those times was just hand stuff, but Rey counts it anyway because the guy’s hands were large, although not as large as Ben’s are, and with that exact thought she feels a gulping warmth in her cunt and knows that her panties are nowhere near dry anymore. 

Rey sneaks another look at Ben’s intimidating ridge. Part of her wonders if she still knows what to do with it.

His lips find hers again, and they’re demanding and firm and she can’t help but melt under them. A broad hand slides under her top and nudges at the bottom band of her bra. Rey pulls away and tears her top over her head, hurling it to the floor. 

She’d snagged one of her cuter sports bras today, thankfully: purple and cut into a V in the front. Not the most sporty of sports bras, yet it had been the only clean option. Ben trails his fingertips over one of the thin shoulder straps.

“This thing have velcro, too?” 

Rey purses her lips. “I left my velcro bra at home, sorry.” She drags her palm down his chest, across hard muscle, past his pounding heart. His stomach tightens as she journeys over it. 

The hand that had explored her bra strap tightens on her shoulder as her touch descends lower. She watches him--basking in his reactions, delighting in every gasping breath and moan and helpless thrust of his hips as she gets closer.

Then, right as she can feel the solid head of him, he reaches up and brackets her face with his hands and kisses her: gentle and thorough. He’s making sweet love to her mouth as she’s fighting with the opening on his long underwear bottoms so she can access his cock, and she’s desperate to touch it and hold the weight in her palm. Then it’s out, and free, and--

Rey exhales in a sound that’s part overwhelmed cry, part excited squeak. 

“It’s...it’s... _ fuck,  _ Ben,” she whispers when her breath returns. 

Ben snorts a laugh. “Thanks, I think.” 

His cock is long and thick and slightly curved in a way that makes her mouth water just thinking of tasting it. Rey can’t stop staring, even when Ben bites out,

_ “Shit.” _

“What?” She should look at him, but his dick is jutting from the opening of his long johns and has twitched with the force of his expletive, and she’s practically trembling with how badly she wants to trace the flushed head of it. 

“I don’t have a condom,” Ben says, and that is what finally snares her attention. “Do you have a condom?”

Rey bites her lip. “No, I didn’t think that today’s lesson would come to this.” She nudges him. “Get it? Come to--”

“I get it.” He looks pained, and she’d bet that it’s more from the lack of a prophylactic than the terrible quality of the joke. 

Rey toys with one of the buttons at his collar. It pops free easily.

“Well,” she says, “I’m on the shot, and I don’t have anything that would...um...necessitate a condom.”

His dark eyes flick to hers and they’re filled with barely-contained hope. 

“My last check-up was a year ago,” Rey continues, “but I haven’t done...things since that.” 

Ben lets out a deep breath that ruffles the hairs at Rey’s temple. “Oh thank God, me too.” He thumbs her waistband, and the slow drag of his callused fingertip against the tender skin of her belly makes her eyes flutter. 

“Over a year for you too?” she says, though her voice trembles. A finger has dipped beneath her waistband. 

He chuckles at her ear, then groans as she traces one of the veins. “Yeah, it’s... _ unh... _ not every day I invite an incredibly hot... _ ohfuu--” _

She’s closed her hand around the achingly soft head of his cock, and instead of shoving his way into her pants, he kisses her again. It’s shakier this time; his breath shudders into her mouth, and it’s startlingly intimate. He’s not content to lie back and let her pleasure him. There’s an urgency for contact, as if he’s worried that she’ll disappear out his door and into the blizzard.

She runs her hand down his length, even though she can barely wrap her fingers around him, and more fragmented words spill from his lips straight into hers.

A quickening of her strokes, and his hips jerk, and when she glances down his cock is swollen and shining with precum. 

Rey’s never been the one to make the first move; she’s always been too caught up in the terror of rejection. There’s something inside of her now, though, something that might have always been there. It lifts its sleepy head and tells her to be bold. For once, act without fear. 

So she dives to his cock and sucks it deep. 

His startled gurgle eases swiftly into a throaty moan; he encourages her with gentle pressure at the back of her head, his fingers twisting in her hair. Her fist glides over what she can’t fit, and it’s becoming slippery with her own saliva, and she’s sure that she’s making a mess, but can’t bring herself to care. 

Hands clamp on her shoulders and pull her back up to him. His face is flushed and his hair is deliciously rumpled and his eyes are glazed. 

Before she can ask why he’s stopped her, his teeth nip at her collarbone and he’s tugging off her pants with a fervor that nearly rips the waistband. She reaches around his enormous shoulders and grapples with his shirt until she slides it over his head, and then gapes, because  _ holy hell, _ the man is built like a tank. She’d ogle longer, but his chest is warm against her chest and his mouth is everywhere and he’s nipping at her skin just hard enough to send frissons up her spine. 

Rey feels like she’s flying down the ski slope, faster and faster, the vertigo making her brain weightless.  

He’s tugging at her bra, and under his breath she can hear him mutter, “What the fuck is…” and “...why there isn’t a Goddamn fucking clasp.” 

“Hold on, you’ll rip it with your monster hands.”

“They’re not monster hands.”

Rey scoffs as she sits up to wrestle with the bra. It’s great when she’s running, because it’s so tight that it allows no movement. Now, though, it’s not ideal.

“Oh please. Your fingers are like bratwursts.” 

“Complain again when they’re in you.”

Rey's concentration lapses and the bra snaps across the room. Then his hot mouth is closing on one breast while his monster hand--Rey’s sticking with it, so sue her--caresses the other. His name falls from her lips with nearly every breath.

She's just in her underwear now, a pale blue cotton number that have as much raw sexual allure as an episode of Golden Girls. Ben rubs the front, then gives her a crooked smirk, and slides off the bed. His cock is still sticking out through the opening of his thermals and in any other situation it would make her giggle, but he stands by the mattress, with his linebacker shoulders and lickable pectorals, and gives her the same sort of look that she gives to a cheeseburger after an exhausting run, and she can only lie there, panting. 

He grips her calves, after giving her socks a brief raised eyebrow (red and white stripes with frolicking penguins), and yanks her hips to the edge of the bed. Although his biceps flex with the motion, he shows no sign of effort; the man must be strong enough to bench press three of her. It might be an exaggeration. She doesn’t care if it is.

Still pinning her with that ravenous look, he gets to his knees, and Rey can only think that if he’s planning on doing what she thinks he’s planning on doing, he should probably be kneeling on something soft. His fingers hook underneath the waistband of her panties and he drags them down her thighs. 

A noise escapes Ben as he sees her pussy--some desperate, cracking gasp that’s a mix of surrender and lust. His fingers feather over her pubic hair and glide across her clitoris. 

“You look fucking delicious,” he rumbles against her thigh. 

This should be the most arousing thing in the world, to have a man with a huge cock  _ want _ to go down on her, but...

But...

Whatever boldness she’d had when she swooped down to fellate him has been trickling out of her since he’s pulled her to the edge of the bed. A lump of dread, iron-cold and sinister, sits heavy at the base of her spine.

Because, she knows that no matter how hard he tries, Ben’s not going to make her come. Not with his fingers, not with his mouth. Rey stiffens, despite everything. People have tried, sometimes with embarrassing desperation, but in all of her years the only person that’s ever succeeded in giving Rey an orgasm has been Rey. 

His mouth is so close to her pussy that heat of his breath warms her clit. He’s felt her stiffen, though.

“What’s wrong?” he says gently. 

“It’s…” Rey bites her lip.

He rubs the inside of her knee. “Tell me.” 

She clenches the quilt. “Don’t take it personally when I can’t...when you can’t make me come.” 

A breathy chuckle brushes air against her soaked cunt and it makes her shiver.

“If I can’t make you come, I promise that I won’t take it personally.”

Rey lifts her head to look at him, to see if he’s meant to change her ‘when’ to an ‘if,’ but his expression is genuine. Then there’s a flash of a cunning grin, and she’s about to tell him that he really should put a blanket or something under his knees, when his palms grip her hips. It’s a comforting touch, a grounding one.

Ben says, “What do you need? Tell me what to do.”

She does.

It’s a little tricky at first, since Rey has never spoken the words ‘Run your tongue along my labia’ out loud, yet it slowly becomes easier and easier. She directs him: the angles, the pressure, the location. When she tells him she needs his fingers, he obliges and fucks her with two of them. They’re long and thick and they move within her in a way that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.

Dammit, the bastard was right.

No complaints here.

It occurs to her then that maybe the reason no one's ever made her come is because no one's ever actually asked that question before. 

_ What do you need?  _

She needs Ben, apparently, following her explicit instructions to simultaneously suckle her clit, toy with her nipple, and scissor his fingers within her. He’s a multitasking genius. 

His voice is suddenly in her head:  _ ‘There’s an art to it. Just relax.’  _

She takes his advice.

And then... 

Rey is no stranger to orgasms: she knows that when her toes tingle, it’s a sure sign that a good one is about to sweep over her. The tingle in her arms is new, though, as is the surging electricity in her head, and the clenching of  _ everything, _ and then she inhales and it’s like her lungs are about to burst, and when they do, the rest of her body follows. 

It almost seems as if her scream rattles the walls, and the kettle on top of the stove, and the very air she’s struggling to get enough of. Ben doesn’t stop. The suction of his mouth on her clit is all at once too much and not enough; each flick of his tongue sends spasms through her limbs. 

He finally pulls away and wipes his mouth, lips plump and shining and pulled into a crooked smile. 

“H-holy sh-i-it,” Rey gasps. She says it again. It’s all she can manage. She tries to struggle onto her elbows and both of her arms give out. The words stutter out a third time.

Ben’s crooked smile widens. His hands roam over her stomach, her breasts, her arms, her neck. The friction of his skin against hers kicks off a series of aftershocks and she arches off of the bed. 

With a fleeting glance, she notices that his long johns are gone, as is his underwear. 

His naked body is so close to her naked body, his glorious erect cock inches from where she’s craving him. He’s stroking her hips, letting her return to herself, waiting for her to catch her breath. 

“Don’t let that get to your head,” Rey says when she can form full sentences again.

“Not a chance.” His expression clearly says the opposite. 

She smiles up at him. “So what now, Ben Solo?” There’s a drawl to her voice, the kind of sexy purr that she’s always associated with seductresses and the really good porn stars. Hearing herself speak as such sends a fluttering thrill through her.

Ben is visibly taken by that purr. “Well,” he says, his voice unsteady, “I’ve been wanting to bury my face between your thighs for weeks.” A tip of his head, a narrowing of his eyes. “And what happened when you got off the ski lift doesn’t count.” 

Rey barks a laugh. “What else?”

He traces the veins on her inner thighs with the backs of his fingers. “You’ve had your perfect mouth wrapped around my cock.” 

Her lips part, because of all the times she’s thought of the sound of his voice as she turns up the setting on her vibrator, that phrase has never made an appearance, and after today, she’s certain that it will. 

Ben’s gaze trips up the whole length of her naked body and as his shoulders lift in a deep breath, his cock bobs once more. 

“And?”

“And now I’d like to rail you. Just...really give it to you.” 

She feels it again, that same gulping warmth in her cunt, and Ben looks down at it as if he somehow knows.

“I...hhmn...um, yes. Okay. Please. That sounds nice.”

“Does it?” He rubs the broad head of his cock over her entrance, slipping through her folds, pressing it against her clitoris. 

“Mmhmm.” She’s starting to pant again. 

“Oh,” he says, “good.” 

He pushes into her slowly, filling and stretching her, and  _ fuck, _ the warm weight of his monster dick--yeah, she’s going to use that here, too--urges her to spread her legs wider. The heel of his hand grinds against her clit and as she spasms around him he goes deeper, and deeper. 

Beautiful words are spilling out between each of Ben’s groans: ‘Feel so good,’ and ‘Sweet pussy,’ and ‘Fucking tight.’ 

When he bottoms out, she reaches for him and he covers her mouth with a sloppy kiss while her hands grip his shoulders and her fingernails rake across his back. Her moan is muffled when he starts to move, at first in easy, gliding motions, then faster and harder until he straightens, and pins her thighs, and begins to piston into her, each thrust shooting sparking pleasure right to the base of her skull. Sweat sheens on the broad planes of his chest, and hell, even his hair is jostling with the force of it. The bed scrapes against the floor.  His mattress starts to squeak rhythmically. Their moans syncopate with the squeaks, and it sounds raucous and lewd and borderline pornographic and Rey loves it all. 

Ben pulls out and she actually whimpers at the withdrawal. 

“Get on your hands and knees.” 

Oh,  _ yes. _

She makes a solid effort to do so, but her arm gives out again. They laugh together as he helps arrange her, and she can feel his chest shaking against her back. The bed dips when he climbs on the bed behind her. 

Then his cock slips into her once more, and his fingers dig into the flesh of her hips, and her fingers dig into the soft fabric of the quilt. It’s different this way; he’s hitting a spot that makes her knees want to buckle even though they’re barely taking her weight. 

Warm breath tickles her neck and Ben’s voice is a low growl in her ear. “Do you want me to fill your every ho-ho-hole?”

“Ohmighhod,” Rey blurts. “Are you...mhh...for real?”

He thrusts deep enough to make her squeak. “Think so.”

“I, um, then yes. Yes, please.” 

Still inside her, he reaches to the nightstand and pulls out a bottle of lube from a small drawer. 

Rey scoffs, though it lacks malice. “What happened to ‘being on my own,’ Mister I-Keep-Lube-Handy-At-All-Times?”

“It feels better when I fuck myself.”

Ohh, now she’s imagining that: his huge hand wrapped around his cock as he pumps it, his grunts and the jerk of his hips off his mattress as his cum shoots into his palm--hot and sticky, dripping over his knuckles, leaking between his fingers.

The snap of the lid opening is louder than she expects, and cool liquid dribbles from the top of her crack down between her cheeks to tickle her labia. His thumb circles her ass and she sucks in a quick breath. 

“Is this okay?” he asks.

She’s never done butt stuff before. Today is a good a day as any to try it, right? Rey nods rapidly. 

Ben times it with with his thrusts so that he’s prodding at her entrance, then pushing in ever so slightly, then out, then in, and each time his digit goes a little deeper until he’s fucking her with his cock and his thumb and  _ holyfuckinghell, _ why hasn’t she tried this sooner? 

He had said ‘every hole,’ though, and Rey’s nearly forgotten about that part until the fingers of his other hand trace her lip. 

Her tongue darts out to flick at the pads of his fingers, and she nips them. They slide into her mouth, pressing against her tongue while he cups her jaw with his palm. Rey moans around him. She can taste salt and sweat and wonders if these fingers were the ones that were inside her earlier, and it makes her moan louder.

“You’re taking me so well, god, you’re...nghh. Fuck.” His praise has made her tighten around him and he can only gasp. 

After a short moment, Ben continues, “Does it feel good when I fill you like this?” There’s a strain to his voice she hasn’t heard before.

“Mhhmnhmm,” she says around his fingers. It feels impossibly good. Unlawfully good. Any second, someone is going to burst through the door, claim to be the sex police, and punish them with a probation period of extra-thick condoms and cherry-flavored lube. 

Part of her knows that after this, after what’s happened and anything else that will happen in this snow-covered cabin, she’s never going to be able to look at sex the same. 

He’s fucking  _ changed _ her. 

Goddammit.

How can she expect to be content with her vibrator and her dildo after this? Not a snowball’s chance in the industrial-strength microwave of Hell.

“I want you to come, sweetheart,” Ben says as if pleading. “I want to be inside you when you scream this time.” 

She attacks her clit and, for the first time in...well,  _ ever, _ really, it only takes a few savage strokes for her to hurtle into the crackling void with a choked, sobbing cry. She can feel her ass and her pussy clench around him, and there’s an exquisite increase in friction. Her saliva is cool on her lips and chin. 

Ben removes the hand from her mouth and brings it to her hip, clenching and using it for leverage as he thrusts faster in her. His thumb no longer moves inside her, but it’s still there, solid and thick. Muttered, grunted curses tumble out of him. 

That something inside of her--the dormant sleepy thing that rose up and encouraged a blow job--hears his sounds, and feels the frantic way he’s driving into her. It wakes up completely. It sees the cord that’s been securing her to rationality, and hesitation, and restraint, and bites it clean through. 

She doesn’t think about what she wants to say, she just says it.

“Fuck me into the bed, Ben.” 

“W-what?” The slap of his thighs against her ass slows. 

“Do it. Fuck me...uhhnn...so I feel it tomorrow. Wreck my pussy.”

“Oh fuck, fucking  _ fuck.”  _ He pulls out, gasping.

“What?” She twists around to try and see what’s going on. “What? Did--”

“Don’t...don’t say anything else. I need a...mhhn.”

The deep rumble of his voice is breathless and unsteady, and the thing nudges her to wiggle her ass against him until he restrains her with a hand on her hip.

“Just...hold still, a second.” He exhales a slow, deep breath. 

Rey swallows, the anxiety poised nearby and ready to pounce. “Was that not…”

Ben laughs, surprised. “It was amazing.” Air rushes from his lungs in an ‘oof.’ “I’ve just, uh, discovered that I might have a bit of a voice kink.” 

“Oh.”

“Any more of that and you were going to make me cum before I could properly fuck you into the bed.” 

_ “Oh.” _

Another deep breath and he eases his thumb from her ass. Rey makes a monosyllabic mutter of protest, which stretches out into a cracked moan as he slides back into her cunt. His touch trails along her sides and down her thighs as he nudges her legs farther apart with his knees. 

“Get on your stomach.”

The quilt doesn’t seem so soft when her nipples are rasping against it. He drags open-mouthed kisses along her back, over her neck, traces the shell of her ear with his tongue, then pulls her hips up a fraction before he slams into her. Tears glimmer on her eyelashes because it feels good,  _ so fucking good, _ and she wonders for a split second how on Earth she’s going to leave this cabin when it comes time to do so. 

His pace is hard and brutal; the bed’s squealing again and the headboard rattles against the wall, and it’s a strange juxtaposition with the gentle brush of his balls against her clit. Everything he’s doing feels deep, and heavy, and full. 

More words burst out of her like freed birds. 

“Come on me.” 

“I--” Ben coughs. “What?”

“Please. Come on me. I wanna feel it on my skin.”

“Fuck,  _ fuck.”  _

She wonders ever so briefly what she’s become. What is she saying? Who is this wanton creature begging for a man’s ejaculate?

As soon as he pulls out, he flips her to her back easily. He’s strong, and large, and  _ large,  _ and it’s pinging that part of her that wants him to actually throw her over his shoulder and take her to his cave. 

He’s still between her legs, jacking off in swift, ruthless strokes. She’s drawn to the play of pleasure and agony across his long face, at the bulging of the muscles in his arms, the tensing of his stomach. 

He comes with a barking grunt. Cum shoots across her belly and her chest. A drop lands on her chin. She grasps his cock and keeps stroking, even as he’s bracing himself against the bed, his back bowing, his massive body shuddering above her as trembling curses leave him in gasps. Her hands are covered in cum, no--everything is covered in cum. A drop of it tickles when it beads down her ribcage. There’s a little pool of it in her belly button. 

“Shit.” Ben’s gasping. He twitches when she thumbs the slippery head.

“Mmmh.” She’s never felt this sated after sex. After anything, really.

Breathless, he collapses next to her and drapes an arm over her sticky stomach. 

Logs shift in the stove. A branch snaps outside, overburdened by the snowfall. 

“Not the worst holiday, was it?” Rey says at last.

Ben whuffs a laugh into her hair. “Far from it.” 

The kettle steams and burbles.

Rey nibbles the inside of her cheek. “What now? Do I keep taking ski lessons from you?” 

“Do you want to?”

She sighs. “Not really.” 

“Oh.” The disappointment in his voice is as heavy as lead. 

“At least not ski lessons.”

It’s difficult to see, since she’s smooshed against his shoulder, but his face brightens. “I do have other lessons available.”

“I think I just experienced one.”

His chuckle vibrates through the bed and into her. “Others besides that. Did you know there are snowshoes for running?” 

Rey pulls back to look at him. “Really?”

He nods solemnly. “And you know what the best part about that is?”

“What?”

“There’s no need to use a ski lift.”

Rey sucks in a dramatic gasp. “I don’t need to practice getting off anymore?”

His grin is a sly one. “I wouldn’t say that.”

 

* * *

 

Outside, colossal mountain peaks sit as majestic and proud as deities against a sky so blue that it’s nearly blinding. The blizzard has settled into a fresh blanket of glittering flakes; it drapes over the trees, and the vinyl-covered lift chairs, and drifts up against two sets of skis that lean against a wooden cabin. 

No one sees the mountains.

No one sees that the blizzard has ended.

And those skis aren’t going anywhere for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> This was such a hoot to write. Thanks so much for the prompts, Buni!!


End file.
